


Bump in the Night

by goldheart



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: A Study in Pink AU, Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Alternate Universe - High School, Friendship, Gen, Ghost Hunters, Ghost!Sherlock, Ghosts, Harry Likes Ghost Hunting, Paranormal AU, References to The Imitation Game, Teenlock, World War II, ghost au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-09
Updated: 2015-01-09
Packaged: 2018-03-06 19:14:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,729
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3145517
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goldheart/pseuds/goldheart
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John is, frankly, rather tired of being dragged along with Harry and her friends. It always ends badly for him. But ghost hunting? He can just picture it: dark rooms, locked doors, disappointment – it’s a disaster waiting to happen.</p><p>Or is it?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bump in the Night

**Author's Note:**

  * For [NotYourHousekeeperDear](https://archiveofourown.org/users/NotYourHousekeeperDear/gifts).



> My first good answer to a prompt, for a Secret Santa exchange on a forum! The prompt was as such: 
> 
> 'My first prompt is "World War II" This could be the setting, or might relate to an important object/ character/ plot point...  
> Looking back at my answers I think maybe "quirky" might be my second prompt! I'm not a big fan of hurt/comfort- drama, and I would like to read something really different! I'd be happy with something a bit whacky and out there- maybe an AU, something funny maybe? I love romance too and also would be happy to read a casefic.'
> 
> So I took that and made something completely unexpected, creating this AU. Do you know how hard it is to write a WWII story without _hurt/comfort drama?_ Go figure.

John really should have known better than to tag along with Harry and her friends. He should have that any ‘adventure’ involving Harriet and her group of girls would end badly for him; after all, he’d proven that point at least ten times by being left behind in increasingly more precarious places. 

Like accidentally being left in the locked cellar of Sarah Bergey's house next door for five hours when he was eleven.

But John’s a teenager now, he rationalises. He’s smart enough to know when things are going too far, strong enough to wrestle his way out of a bad situation, and charismatic enough to talk to a few older girls like he knows what he’s doing. This really shouldn’t have been a big deal. Harry had begged him to come along– _it’s my birthday, Johnny, and I’m only home for a few weeks before I go back to uni, pleeeeease?_ –so John had sighed and given his hesitant consent.

If the fact that Harry’s gorgeous best friend Clara would be attending swayed his decision at all, he didn’t admit it.

Harry was the kind of person who became obsessed with topics and activities on a whim before discarding them. She’d had a princess phase, a goth phase, an athletic phase, and an introvert phase. She’d watched Doctor Who for days on end in the summer before declaring it silly and latching onto rom-coms instead. She’d drawn for months before pitching all of her art equipment into the nearest skip and declaring it to be a waste of time, and written manuscripts a mile long before deleting them all.

John had laughed when she said she wanted to start paranormal investigations. When her expression had stayed dead serious, the smile had slid off his face and landed somewhere in the pit of his stomach. 

‘You’re serious?’ he’d asked, deadpan.

‘Deadly,’ she had responded with a smirk, waving an EMF detector in his face.

So that was how John Watson found himself lingering behind Harry and Co. with their 11 cm heels, a tan head bobbing up and down in an attempt to peer over their heads and stare at the foreboding black door before them.

The eight members of ‘The Ring’ (as Harry had declared them over a late-night snack at the Chinese restaurant around the corner) all have silly titles and jobs that John had only been paying half-attention to while shoveling hot dumplings and beef chow mein into his mouth. Harry is the Ringleader (they’d all had a chuckle at that while John rolled his eyes), in charge of narrating to the main cameras and directing the equipment. Clara, Jamie, Sarah, and Mish are in charge of the cameras, which had been somewhere in Mish’s basement and luckily are equipped with night vision capabilities. Amina and Charlotte had been placed in charge of the duffel bag full of equipment varying from makeshift instruments and surprisingly costly ‘hunter’ equipment, like a spirit box, Harry’s EMF, and something called an Ovilus that Harry and Co. had bought using old birthday money and part-time job income.

And John? John got to rummage for old voice recorders to hand out as needed. 

There are five of the devices in his pockets. He rubs them with his fingers  as Harry slips a key she’d obtained from the landlady of the flats before them into the door and opens it with a creak.

 John isn’t nervous. Why would he be? He’s become so inured to violence and scary jump scenes from horror movies over the years that a few bumps and noises aren’t going to scare him. It’s more likely that he’s going to punch anything trying to attack him than flee like a screaming schoolgirl. However, the way the street-lamps catch the glint of the shining ‘221b’ mounted on the door as it opens into the shadows makes him shiver a little.

No one had lived at 221 Baker Street for years. Even the landlady had vacated her flat within the building, telling the Watson children that she had been trying to sell or rent at least one of the three living spaces for years.

‘They always leave after a few weeks,’ she’d said solemnly as she had handed them a plate of biscuits the night before. ‘The place gives people the creeps. It’s an old building, mind you, and I kept lowering the rates, but no one will stay. Even I admit it’s eerie to be in there alone.’

Mrs. Hudson is Charlotte’s aunt, which was how Harry had found out about her golden opportunity. The elderly, doting woman had been more than happy to let the group of uni girls and tagalong John spend the night, ‘Just as long as you let me see what you find when you’re done!’ 

Harry flicks on her torch and steps boldly into the darkness. Clara bounces after her, camera in hand, and John finds himself still trailing behind everyone, wondering what the hell he was getting himself into this time.

The door shuts behind him with an ominous click.

They stand around in the entrance for a few moments, adjusting to the low light put off by Harry’s torch, before someone reaches forward with a pale arm and opens the second door.

‘Where to, first?’ Harry asks, waving her light around. There’s a staircase to their left and two doors down the hall to their right. John nearly walks into the side of a fireplace, muttering apologies to the girls he runs into to avoid a scrape.

‘That’s Aunt Martha’s old flat,’ Charlotte says, pointing straight ahead. ‘There’s nothing special about it. We could go into the basement flat, but it’s smelly and full of damp.’ The girls give a collective shudder at that, and John wonders why the heck they’re ghost hunting if a bit of mould makes them shy away from investigating. ‘The upstairs one is the interesting place. Lots of dusty furniture, and that’s the one Aunty  kept trying to rent out.’

‘221b it is,’ Harry says decisively, already moving and taking the steps two at a time. John lingers behind, taking in the general layout of the entrance hall and making sure he doesn’t fall flat on his face in front of Clara if he trips on a stair. He automatically fumbles for a light switch as he trails into the door, but a hand slaps his away from the wall.

‘Careful, Johnny,’ Harry hisses. ‘You’ll ruin the mood and scare the spirits away if you turn it on.’

John thinks that if spirits were scared away by a lit room, then there wouldn’t be anything for them to find by now, but he keeps his lips pressed together in disapproval. He thinks he sees Clara give him a reassuring smile, and it makes something warm in his chest, but he can’t really be sure in the dark.

‘Cameras on?’ Clara asks, gesturing to hers. The sound of the devices turning on with clicks and beeps pierces the quiet.

‘Alrighty,’ Harry says, absently smoothing her hair out of her face and smiling at them with white teeth and blue eyes. ‘Let’s get started.’

* * *

 

They eventually settle into a circular formation, with the four camera girls around the remaining Ring members. John keeps his hands clasped behind his back as he waits for Harry’s cues to do something other than stand around awkwardly.

‘Hello,’ Harry says confidently into the empty space. ‘My name’s Harry Watson, that’s my little brother John,’ she points at him, ‘and these are my friends, Clara Oswald, Michaella DeWeese, Amina Abbasi, Charlotte O’Callahan, Jamie Moran, and Sarah Bergey. We’re here to prove that this place isn’t just an old, dingy flat full of silly stories. If there’s anyone there, we’re just here to learn about you, talk for a little while, and share your story. If you want to come out and chat, we’d appreciate that a lot.’ She looks to Clara for encouragement, and the small, slender girl gives a smile and a nod.

‘Turn on the EVP recorders,’ Harry says, beckoning to John. He fumbles with them for a second in an attempt to find the power and start buttons before handing them out to the three others. He gives one to Clara and returns her beatific smile before flicking one on himself.

Harry sweeps her torch across the living room. John catches a glimpse of a set of mismatched, old armchairs, a dusty fireplace, a shelf full of decorative bottles, and... hold on a second, is that a skull?

‘Wait,’ he says, lunging forward to grab Harry’s arm and steady it on the white shape. He steps forward, leaping over a cardboard box full of books, to peer at the macabre decoration.

‘Well,’ Amina says, her voice wavering a little. ‘Is it real?’ 

‘Yeah,’ John says without thinking, squinting at it. ‘You can see where it’s starting to go yellow. Look, there’s a crack there, and you can see by the jaw shape that it’s male.’

They stare at him.

‘Hey,’ he says defensively, raising his hands. ‘You know I want to be a doctor. We learned about the difference in Biology.’

Jamie shivers.

Harry warily stares at the skull for a few moments before setting her recorder down on the chair closest to her.

‘What do you want to try first?’ she asks. ‘We could ask questions, try the dowsing rods, pull out the Ouija board?’

‘We already have the recorders running,’ John points out, taking the initiative to settle onto the dusty floor. 

Clara nods and points her camera at him. 

‘Who’s going first?’ she asks, stepping closer. ‘Harry? Mina? Charl-’ 

There’s a thump from behind them, like a book hitting the ground. Jamie and Amina let out squeaks of surprise and terror as Clara pivots, pointing her camera at the direction of the kitchen. Harry’s torchlight skitters over a table, two chairs, a sink, and no one. John cranes his head to get a better look.

‘Did you hear that?’ Sarah asks, stepping back.

‘Of course we heard it,’ Harry snaps.

‘I’m moving,’ Jamie declares, scooting away from the arch.

As the girls rearrange themselves to face the arch and lean against boxes, furniture, anything but empty space, John plays back his recorder into his ear. 

Between the grainy, girlish squeals and Mish’s question, he hears something that shouldn’t be there. Is that... laughter? 

‘Harry, listen,’ he demands, holding the recorder towards Clara’s camera and hoping the audio distortion will convince Harry of... whatever she’s looking for. His sister gets closer, her ear nearly pressed to the device, as John plays it back again. Something resembling a baritone chuckle rasps through the device, and Harry beams with success at her team in response.

‘Give me that,’ she says abruptly, reaching across John and plucking a still-running device from Charlotte’s fingers. She settles next to him on the floor, crossing her legs and setting the device between them. Amina and Charlotte follow suit.

‘Most people go into these things with some knowledge of the history of the inhabitants of a location,’ Amina starts, taking the initiative. ‘We can’t find anything for this place. I spent last week speaking to historians and researching online, but no fruit. Could you help us out a little?’

They wait expectantly.

‘Maybe a name?’ Sarah suggests, shifting her camera.

More silence. John holds back a sigh. 

‘End EVP,’ Clara says quietly from behind John. He automatically reaches forward and hits the red button, lifting the device and passing it back to Charlotte. She gives him a wavering smile of gratitude and turns up the volume, holding it close to her camera microphone and playing it back.

John gets jostled and shoved to the outside of the converging ring of girls. He wonders again if he really needed to be spending the night avoiding the shaking and shrieks of scared uni students, because, despite his contribution to their discovery of the apparent spirit, he seemed to be nothing but the awkward kid getting in the way. Clara must have seen the expression on his face, even in the dark of a London night, because she shifts to allow him to step closer.

The laugh that had been picked up on his recorder doesn’t play on Charlotte’s. Jamie and Sarah squeeze a little closer to each other at the empty static, leaving John just enough room to see where Harry’s hand firmly holds the device in unwavering fingers.

Amina’s warm, Arabic voice wafts through the device through a layer of static, distorting it into an eerie, nearly ghostly declaration. As her first question hangs in the air, the static crackles, and Harry gasps, shaking the device a little.

'Did you hear?' she says excitedly, blond curls bouncing as she whips it around to look expectantly at her friends. 

'No,' John says, confused. 'Was I supposed to?'

'It was a definite "go away,"' Mish says from behind Clara.

'I heard that, too,' Jamie pipes up, looking even paler in the near nonexistent light than normal. 'Keep going.'

John didn't hear anything but a burst of static. That laugh, he's certain, was a figment of his imagination. Harry and her friends–even Clara–are just too gullible. He wonders if he can find an excuse to just go home. After all, haunted or not, an old, creaking flat in the dead of the night is a little unnerving. His hand shifts to where he thinks he might keep a gun someday, if the way his life seems to be laid out continues on its path.

The crackle of Amina's technology-warped voice continues on its path. The static of silence at the end of her second question remains constant, save for a bleep of noise at the end. Sarah, who John has decided probably should not have come with them from the way she is shaking like a leaf, jumps and nearly tips Charlotte into him. 

'Home,' Clara says. 'Listen again, that's what I hear.’

Harry rewinds it a little. When the sound bleeps across the static, John supposes that it could be interpreted as the word 'home.' Or it could be 'hope.' Or 'hoax.' Really, it just sounds like a radio signal cutting into theirs, but he once again decides that it's kinder to say nothing to the circle of girls nodding their heads.

'That's not a name,' he says instead. 

'True,' Clara acknowledges, smiling at him again. He feels heat rising to his cheeks at the gesture, and quickly looks away. 'Suppose we try something else, Harry?'

Harry beams at her and hands off the recorder to Amina.

'Why not? Maybe we'll get better results in a quarantine.' Her lamp-like eyes scan the group until they land on John. A wide grin, full of mischief, crosses her face, and a sense of foreboding falls over John.

_ Oh, no. _

'Johnny, why don't you go first?' she asks.

'What?' he says, caught off guard. 'Now, wait a minute-'

'You can take the master bedroom,' she continues, ignoring him. 'Nice and wide, and not a lot of stuff, so you won't trip over anything and die. Clara and I can go upstairs to the second bedroom and bathroom. Amina and Charlotte can do the kitchen, and Mish, Jamie, and Sarah get to hang out in the front entryway. We'll tackle the basement flat together.  Agreed?'

'No, wait, you want me to sit in the dark of an unfamiliar house and talk to the air?' John asks incredulously. 'Really? You're serious?' Harry beams at him. 'Jesus, no. Absolutely not.'

'Aw, but Johnny...' she whines. 'It's my birthday! Please?'

'Harry, I'm here because you asked,' he says, gripping his voice recorders more tightly, 'but I didn't really sign up for this. I didn't know–'

'Please?' Clara asks, and he falls silent. 'It's just for a few minutes, Johnny. Then we're going back to the group activities. I planned this out with your sister, and it'll get much more interesting when it's all over. I know you're skeptical–' John tries to protest, but she gives him a knowing look, and he presses his lips together, '–but I promise that reviewing the evidence is much more entertaining. So... You in?’ 

'Yes, fine,' he finds himself saying, and he violently curses at himself in his head. 'Let's get this over with, yeah?'

* * *

 

Twenty minutes later, John finds himself sitting awkwardly on the edge of a queen-sized, dusty bed, with two recorders on the table next to him and both Clara's and a regular home video camera pointed at him from tripods. The two black masses in the darkness are almost more intimidating than the chilliness and dusty darkness that the master bedroom is. He'd walked through the kitchen to get to it. As he'd passed it, a metal dish had slipped off of the table in the center and clattered to the floor. He brushed it off as his bumbling clumsiness, but something nagged at the back of his head.

_You didn't touch it, John.  _

_ You would have felt it hit your arm. _

_ The angle was wrong. _

He shakes his head. Now's not the time to be nervous about myths and legends. He's smarter than this, he knows. He has top-of-his-class marks, Band 1 ranking for his UKCAT, and nearly exceptional scores on his BMAT that'll aid in his quest to make it to medicine in uni, as long as he can keep them in top shape through the rest of sixth form. Science is key to where he wants to go, and he's religious enough to believe in a heaven and a hell and not getting stuck in between.

So he takes a deep breath, and, feeling utterly ridiculous, addresses the air.

'Uh, hello. I'm John, John Watson. You might remember me from down the hall.' He fights the urge to bury his head in his hands and continues. 'I, uh, I tagged along with my sister and her friends for her birthday. Sibling pressure, and all. God, I hate older siblings. But, well, if there's actually anyone there, I don't know anything about the history of this place. I believe we don't know a thing about each other. I don't even know your name.' He lets out a quick laugh. 'For all I know, I'm talking to no one.’

He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a pair of earbuds, glancing at the door to make sure no one's looking. Harry told him specifically not to use a headset–apparently, it messes up anything the "spirits" must be saying.

But honestly, right now, he doesn't really care.

So he grabs a recorder and plugs in the earbuds before sticking one into his left ear and looking expectantly at the blackness before him.

'Thought I'd try this,' he says, feeling foolish.

There's a moment of pure 'silent' static as he sits quietly. Then something crackles at him, and he freezes. 

'Holmes.'

'Holy shit!' he curses, accidentally dropping the recorder. The device clatters to the ground, yanking the buds from his ears, and he scrambles to replace them.

‘Is there someone there?' he asks, gripping the recorder tighter.

Another beat of silent static. Then that same scratchy baritone chuckle reaches his ears.

'Yes, there is.’

He sits in shock for a minute, trying to come up with a good explanation for whatever he's hearing. Then he swallows thickly and tries to speak past the knot suddenly resting in his mouth. 

'So... You're saying-'

'King's or Imperial?'

'Sorry?' John asks, caught off guard. 

'Which will you be attending, King's or Imperial?'

John blinks for a moment in the darkness, absolutely baffled.

How on Earth...?

'King's, sorry, how did you-‘

'I play the violin when I'm thinking,' the voice interrupts, blazing right over John's question. 'Well, played. You said you didn't know a thing about me, so there you go.'

John lowers the recorder to his lap and closes his eyes. Whatever the fuck is happening, he's not ready to process it. Jesus Christ, he's talking to a ghost.

'How do you feel about World War II?'

John takes a moment to register the question. It doesn't help the confusion.

'Sorry, what?'

'Catching up on timelines, gauging the difference since I last spoke to someone. It's been a while now. Helps me to put my thoughts in order. People have issues talking about world conflicts, not really sure why, I'll ask one. British supporter or–' 

'Queen and Country,' John cuts in. 'Just to avoid any assumptions.'

'Of course,' the voice says dismissively. 'Look at you, absolutely loyal to Britain.'

John stares at the recorder, where the red indicator blinks merrily at him.

'Did someone say something about me downstairs?'

'Not a word,' the voice promises, and this time it is a little closer, a little louder.

'Then who said anything about where I'm going to uni?'

'No one,' the voice said. 'Well, I did. Technicalities. Just started a school holiday, clearly preparing for university, probably just got your acceptance letter from King's College London.  Wasn't that difficult of a leap.'

'But,' John sputtered, 'how did you know about King's?'

He isn't sure, but it sounded like there was an intake of breath on the other side.

'Bit simple, really. Your clothes appear to be limp and washed out, indicating they've  been around for a while, despite the exaggerated change in size that comes with puberty. Indicates lower middle class, saving up money you don't have because your sister upstairs is using most of it. You're clearly an upper sixth form student going by your age and the fact that you've glanced several times at your watch and fidgeted with the recording devices–plenty of work piling up, the way you slide your fingers along the devices is like holding a pen or a pencil when writing something particularly long. You don't have the stress indicators of someone staying up late to bring up their grades or find a job suitable for someone not continuing their education, so doing well in school. You’re on holiday, otherwise you wouldn’t be camping out in an old flat until morning during a weekday. Staying locally in London means you don't have to pay for room and board, so more likely you'll be attending university here. You have an insignia on your jumper with the letters KCL and another on the sticker attached to your device with the letters ICL, so maybe a fan, more likely places to which you have been accepted for university, going by the time of the year and the fact that you are in your last year of schooling, King's or Imperial?'  

'Wow,' John says after a beat of silence. 'You sure you didn't just read my mind, or something?' 

'Too easy,' the voice dismisses, and John imagines a figure waving it off with a flick of a wrist. 'Boring. I didn't see or read, I noticed. Much more fun.'

John pulls his mobile from his pocket and glances at the stickers attached to the back.

‘That... was amazing,’ John says, momentarily forgetting who he’s speaking with.  ‘Wow. You got all of that from a glance in the dark? How did you get into my pockets?’

A small laugh rings through the static. ‘I’m not exactly corporeal. I can be everywhere at once, filling a room, or sitting on the tip of a pen.’

He sounds rather pleased with himself as John shivers. 

They (well, John; he isn’t really sure what the spirit, ghost, whatever he is, is doing) sit in the dark as the cameras whir and continue to record. The absurdity of his situation smacks him in the face with the force of a well-landed punch, and for the life of him, he can’t think of what to say.

‘You really think so?’ the voice pipes up, ringing in dulcet baritone notes. ‘That it was amazing?’

‘Of course it was,’ John assures. ‘Quite extraordinary. Bit scary, honestly, but very impressive, Mr...’

A sigh wafts through the recorder. ‘Do pay attention, Mr. Watson, I mentioned it the first time you heard me.’   

John goes back over the conversation in his head, rifling through the words until he stumbles upon an answer.

‘Mr. Holmes?' 

‘The name’s Sherlock Holmes,’ the voice supplies. ‘Holmes of Bletchley Park. And... thank you, I suppose. That’s not normally what people say.’

‘And what do people normally say?’ John asks, glad to have something to latch onto.

‘Well, nothing, really,’ Sherlock admits. ‘They either can’t hear me, or they usually run screaming. But when I was alive, the common response was, “Piss off.”’

John can’t help but smile at that. Then he wonders if he’s gone mental.

Determined to keep his head level, he checks the timer on his mobile. Five minutes left before Harry and the others come for him.

‘Bletchley Park?’ he asks, and the air shifts around him, warming slightly. ‘Important, much?’

Despite having no visual of his ghost, he can almost see Sherlock preening. He envisions a tall, lithe figure, with pale skin and inky curls, smiling briefly at him. 

‘I was a consulting detective before the government came recruiting. Only one in the world. I invented the job. When the police were out of their depth, they came to me. Then my brother, who was, essentially, the British Government, roped me into aiding Queen and Country by offering my skill set. Tedious, really, but I was surrounded by people marginally more intelligent than the Commonwealth, and I found I rather enjoyed the experience. My morality was in question from the moment I entered primary school, but defending a cause I believed to be marginally better than the Germans’ was satisfying. I was more interested in the puzzle, the game, and the stimulus the pressure of time gave me. Really, I was there because I wanted to hurry the end of the war along in favour of Britain and return to my crime scenes. People are just more alluring than numbers and letters. Turing was interesting, though. Not many people who aren’t boring, and, in some regards, he was just like me. Terribly empathetic, though, and very introverted. People didn’t capture my attention the way they did mine.’ 

John lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding. Not only has he actually begun conversing with the impossible, but the man occupying the room with him seems awfully important. He glances at the time in his hand before smiling into the darkness.

‘That sounds rather exciting, Mr. Holmes.’

‘Sherlock, please,’ the ghost insists through the earbud.

‘Let me guess,’ John says wryly. ‘Formalities are beneath the great and mighty Sherlock Holmes?’

A huff of indignation rings through the device, and John starts at the puff of air that dances across his cheek.

‘I’m thinking of joining the army,’ he blurts before he knows what he’s doing. ‘Harry and the others don’t know, and I wouldn’t dare worry my Mum and Dad about it until I’m absolutely sure. It’s just.... you’re right. Harry’s using everything we have for her schooling, and I know she feels right awful about it, but there’s nothing we can do. My parents can’t really pay for me to go to uni, much less medical school, even with the grants, and... just being a doctor isn’t going to cut it for me. It’s just not...’   

‘Exciting enough?’ Sherlock prompts. ‘I spotted it right away. You are the kind of person who seeks an adrenaline rush. Not uncommon in youths reaching adulthood, especially around the time that the war started and being a soldier was synonymous with being a glorified superhero. But it’s different for you, isn’t it? You crave an outlet. You want that thrill of the chase, the blood pumping through your veins; one man against the rest of the world. I was the same,’ he added when John opened his mouth to protest. ‘Different in that I wasn’t an idiot trying to prove myself to society–no, no, no, don’t be like that, practically everyone is–but the same need for excitement is there. I’d say there was nothing the matter with it, but I am a high-functioning sociopath. However, I’m hardly wrong.’

‘Thanks,’ John says sarcastically. ‘That’s really encouraging.’

Sherlock sniffs (or, at least, that’s what John thinks the sound is). ‘Don’t be ridiculous. You’ll be a fine soldier, and an army doctor.’   

‘Dr. Watson has a nice ring to it, doesn’t it?’ John asks, more to himself. ‘Captain Watson.’

‘Hmm,’ Sherlock hums noncommittally at him.

John opens his mouth to say something snarky, but then the timer on his phone goes off with a cheery burst of music.

‘Fascinating,’ Sherlock says, sounding enraptured. ‘And that’s coming from the little box in your hand? I’m guessing it’s a communication device of some sort. Rather advanced. Is it a computer?’

‘As a matter of fact, it is,’ John says, shutting the sound off. ‘Mr. Turing’s ideas came a long way. I suppose they were your ideas too, yeah?’

‘Obviously,’ Sherlock replies, and John envisions his figure’s smile twitching slightly despite the dismissive tone of the spirit’s voice.

‘John! You done?’ Harry yells from down the hallway. John scrambles to his feet and stares at the cameras for a moment, then the recorder in his hand.

Something inside of him tells him that he shouldn’t let Harry know what happened in the master bedroom of 221b. Sherlock is his secret to keep, after all, and judging by the temperature drop in the spot next to him, the man disapproves of his sister and her loudness.

‘I’ll distort your videos,’ the velvety voice said quietly in his ears. ‘You can take care of the recorder, I’m sure. It was less painful to speak to you than most, John Watson. Thank you for the opportunity.’

John feels his heart sink a little at the obvious dismissal, but he nods into the darkness with the bravery of a soldier, and the static on the other end of his earbud seems to empty a little. He pulls it out of his ear.

‘Let me clean up, Harry,’ he calls halfheartedly.

He slips across the room and picks up Clara’s camera. A playback attempt results in unrecognisably distorted footage and a disturbing lack of sound. Further investigation into the second camera results in the same. He folds up the tripods with efficiency, dropping them onto the bed after shutting off both cameras and feeling oddly hollow.

The thought hits him that he could have just imagined the whole conversation to fill the eerie silence that permeates the air. He grits his teeth, knowing that it is the more logical explanation, but something tells him that what might seem more believable isn’t right.

Slowly, he brings the recorder up in his hand, squinting in the darkness to find the replay button. He grabs a dangling earbud and replaces it in his ear, and just for a moment, his hand shakes.

Then the sound of lithe footsteps against the dusty carpet rings through the air, and the static increases a little in his ears, despite the recorder not being turned on.

‘Unless, of course, you’d like to return,’ a welcome voice says wearily on the other end. ‘Er... not good, leaving so quickly?’

‘Yeah,’ John answers immediately. ‘Bit not good.’

‘Hm. Well, I was saying that your company is not unbearable. I never miss an opportunity to relearn my surroundings, and 60-odd years of the same small flat has been rather boring. I need to relearn London again. But you, John Watson: First glimpse of the supernatural and you take to it like a moth to a candle. Don’t mind talking with a 34 year old ghost who is really around 101?’

John finds that he doesn’t really mind at all.

‘Seen a bit of trouble, too, I bet?’

John contemplates that. He thinks about everything Harry and her friends have done to him, and how he somehow managed to get out of every bad situation looking little worse for the wear. He remembers punching Dean Finch when the kid had the nerve to insult Harry in front of him for the thick glasses she wore when they were both in school together. He recalls forcibly pulling two much larger bullies off of an Irish transfer student two years below just last week and making it through with barely a scratch, other than the bruised and swollen knuckles he sported on both hands.  

‘Yes, I suppose,’ he answers. ‘Probably a lot, actually, compared to a lot of people. Far too much.’

Sherlock’s voice turns mischievous. ‘Want to see some more?’

‘Oh, God, yes,’ John says fervently.

‘Brilliant,’ Sherlock says as Harry’s telltale high-heeled clicks ring against the floor on the other side of the door. ‘We’ll soon meet again, John.’

He barely registers Harry’s entrance as she pulls the recorder from his hands and plays it back, sighing over the static that seems to have replaced his enlightening conversation with the resident ghost of 221b. Clara narrates the stories of the supposed answers each of the rest of the Ring girls had collected during their quarantines, and he is shocked to discover that he doesn’t feel the need to impress her with a hastily fabricated tale of his own. Harry declares the night over, satisfied with her ‘findings,’ and John follows behind the rest of them like he always does.

If anyone notices the smirk on his face, they don’t comment.

* * *

It’s a few days later when John lifts his recorder from Harry’s room and retreats to listen for the remnants of his conversation. He is mildly disappointed to hear that there is nothing of Sherlock’s voice left on the recording, but just as he is about to turn it off and sneak it back to Harry, he hears a tapping sound from the audio. Hastily, he listens through, and something lights up in his brain as he recognises the patterns from a curious streak during a summer years ago. He goes back through and records the Morse code.   

John grins at the message when he translates it. Harry wonders why John’s smiling so widely when he hollers that he’ll be back late tonight, and not to worry about him, because he’s just going out to meet a friend.

-... .- -.- . .-. /  ... - .-. . . - .-.-.- /  -.-. --- -- . /  .- - /  --- -. -.-. . /  .. ..-. /  -.-. --- -. ...- . -. .. . -. - .-.-.- /  .. ..-. /  .. -. -.-. --- -. ...- . -. .. . -. - --..-- /  -.-. --- -- . / .- -. -.-- .-- .- -.-- .-.-.- /  ... ....

_ Baker Street. Come at once if convenient. _

_ If inconvenient, come anyway. SH _

 


End file.
